Fatal Shadows

Chapter Thirteen（3）

The answering machine was signaling disaster when I finally got in. Some impulse made me hit Play despite my exhaustion.

“Where the hell are you?” Riordan sounded … angry wasn’t quite the word. “Call me when you get in. I don’t care what time it is.” He recited a couple of new numbers to phone.

I didn’t think he meant five-thirty in the morning, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with him right now anyway. I stripped, dived into bed, loving the cool kiss of my own sheets on my nakedness. The bed did a spin. I closed my eyes. Passed out.

I was surprised when Mr. Atkins called. He said he always enjoyed meeting with former students, and we arranged to meet for lunch at the Denny’s on Topanga Canyon.

I recognized him immediately in blue-tinted spectacles that matched a baggy sleeveless sweater. I recalled that he had a sleeveless sweater in every shade of blue. His hair was thinning but still longish. It occurred to me that while he had seemed ancient and venerable to my 11th grader eyes, he couldn’t have been that old. He was only about sixty now.

“I come here for the early bird specials,” he informed me with a wink, and poured a second packet of C&H into his tea. “That’s the beauty of early retirement, son. You’re still young enough to enjoy life.”

We ordered, and while we waited to be served Mr. Atkins said, “I was very sorry to hear about Robert Hersey. I told my wife when I read the story in the paper what a waste it was. Such a bright, handsome kid.”

“This may sound crazy,” I said, rearranging the salt shakers. “But I’m afraid Robert’s death could have something to do with what happened with the Chess Club.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Mr. Atkins pushed his glasses back up his nose and frowned at me.

“No. Rusty Corday’s dead too — also under suspicious circumstances. Both Rusty and Rob were found with … well … chess pieces.” Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“What do you mean “found” with them?”

I explained what I meant. Mr. Atkin’s eyebrows shot up. “Well of course the whole school knew about Corday, but Hersey. I just can’t believe that. Hersey a queer?” He considered me, and I saw the light dawn. “Ah, I see,” he said regretfully.

Maybe at some point that doesn’t sting any more. I said stiffly, “The thing is, two people dead out of such a small group seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“Don’t get me wrong, son,” Mr. Atkins said. “Moralizing went out with Henry James. But it’s an unhealthy way to live, isn’t it?”

There were a number of responses to that. None conducive to getting more information.

The waitress brought our lunches. As soon as she was out of range, Mr. Atkins said, “I think you’re wrong, though. I admit at the time there might have been reason for murder, if you listen to the talk show hosts. There’s nothing more unstable than the adolescent male.”

“What actually happened?”

“You were there. Oh, that’s right. You came down with mono or something, didn’t you?”

“When I got back you had quit sponsoring the club.”

“Hell. I should hope so. What a mess!” He shook his head and ate a french fry. “Well, it’s no mystery. We were invited to the All City Tournament, and Grant Landis, the big doofus, cheated. Tried to cheat anyway. Knocked the board after making an illegal move or some such crap. You can’t cheat at chess. Not like that.”

“What happened?”

“We were disqualified.” He made a face. “The kids were humiliated and angry. Landis was — well, I felt sorry for the kid. Poor bastard. All he wanted was to fit in. You know the kind of kid who tries too hard to be funny. Gets a laugh and then keeps telling the same joke over and over. He had a knack for irritating and annoying the kids he most wanted to impress — like your pal Hersey.”

I tried to remember Landis. I thought maybe Rob and I had gone over to his house once or twice for study groups, but I couldn’t put a face to the name. Dark, I thought. Bushy dark hair when nobody was wearing bushy dark hair. Glasses, maybe.

“And you quit sponsoring the club? Why not just throw Landis out?”

“He quit.” Mr. Atkins looked uncomfortable at some memory. “Kids are merciless. One of the pack shows weakness and the others’ll devour him.”

“And that was it? They drove Landis out and you quit sponsoring the club?”

Mr. Atkins ate another french fry.

“There’s something else, isn’t there? Can’t you tell me? It might be important.”

“It was a long time ago, son.” He chewed thoughtfully.

“What happened to Landis? I don’t remember him my senior year.”

“Transferred out. Public school.” Behind the blue shades his eyes met mine and flicked away.

I said, “Mr. Atkins, it’s not curiosity. I’ve got to know.”

Mr. Atkins finished chewing and seemed to come to some conclusion.

“Suit yourself. About a month after the whole fiasco Landis was jumped one night coming home from the library. Well, Landis was a strapping kid. Skinny but substantial. So there had to be a gang of them. Anyway, they held him down, shaved his entire body, smeared make up all over his face, and put him in a dress. Then the little shits took photos which they handed round the school.”

I was silent trying to imagine this.

“Of course there was a stink to high heaven. We had everyone from the cops to the school board breathing down our neck. But nobody ever squealed.”

“Landis must have known who did it.”

“He said they wore masks. Maybe they did, but I always thought he was lying. I think he knew who it was, but what the hell. It wouldn’t have made his life any easier to finger them.” He added caustically, “Nowadays he’d have just come back with an automatic weapon.”

“Why did you assume it was somebody in the Chess Club? It sounds more like something a bunch of asshole jocks would do.”

“The Chess Club was a bunch of asshole jocks,” Mr. Atkins retorted. “Hersey was on the tennis team. So were you for that matter. Felicity, or whatever her name was, was the shining star of women’s softball. And Andrew Chin was a diver.”

“What about Rusty Corday?”

“Corday? Was he the wispy little red-haired queer bait?” He caught my eyes. “Sorry, but the kid was flaming.”

I was silent. I had to give old Mr. Chipps credit. I’d never have dreamed he was so full of biases back in the days of chalkboards and report cards. He’d seemed the epitome of the open-minded

nonjudgmental educator.

I said slowly, thinking aloud. “Rob, Rusty and I were all gay. Not that Rob and I would have called it that, even to each other. Not then. Although what the hell we thought we were doing ….”

Mr. Atkins cleared his throat uneasily, recalling me to the present.

“Was Landis gay? Or Chin?” I asked.

“Kids that age don’t know what they are.”

“But they dressed Landis in drag?”

“That doesn’t prove he was queer.”

“That could have been the message though. Maybe it was an accusation aimed at the entire club.”

“No.”

“You seem pretty sure.”

“You teach a few years and you get an ear for lies. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why, but it was the kids in the Chess Club that humiliated Landis that way. The photos were developed in the journalism class.”

Robert.

I began to understand why Robert had sort of forgot to mention any of this to me during the long months of my convalescence. He’d had a tendency even then to resent “Tiny Tim’s lectures.”

Mr. Atkins finished his french fries. “All the same, son, I think you’re reaching. I don’t believe there could be any connection between Hersey’s death and the Chess Club.”

“Why’s that?”

“The one with the — er — motive would be Landis. Right? Well Landis is dead. He died right after high school.”